


The One Where Opposites Attract

by orphan_account



Category: letsplay, markiplier - Fandom, youtube - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Markiplier - Freeform, markiplier imagines, markiplier preferences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-08-09 09:05:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7795711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’re sick. You don’t have a disease – nothing like cancer or even leprosy. You don’t have a cold or even a cough. You’re not dying. You’re sick of the man you’re supposed to marry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One Where Opposites Attract

You’re sick. You don’t have a disease – nothing like cancer or even leprosy. You don’t have a cold or even a cough. You’re not dying. You’re sick of the man you’re supposed to marry.

Glancing at him over the top of your paper, you roll your eyes. He’s reading the comic section of the Sunday paper while you’re reading about the most recent political debate. This is only the beginning. While you’re wearing glasses, he’s squinting at the page because he forgot his at home. While your legs are crossed at the knees, his legs are wiggling to the beat in his head. You wince as he pops the gum he’s chewing. Not a civilized flavor like mint or cinnamon – no, never that – instead, he chomps on a wad of bright blue raspberry-flavored Bubbalicious.

“Hey,” Mark says. You look at him momentarily, your eyes shifting back to _The New York Times_ as he snaps his gum. “Hey!” he says again.

“Hmm?” you make the noise so it doesn’t sound like you’re annoyed.

“Did you see that they’re coming out with more Calvin and Hobbes comics?”

“No,” you sigh. “Did you see that Donald Trump would implement a system in which all Muslims in the United States were registered in some kind of database and have to carry around identification cards?” you ask in return.

You don’t really care about whatever inane thing Donald Trump has said this week, but you do care about the fact that your fiancé cares more about comics than the Republican candidates for president.

“Yes, I did know that,” he sucks his gum back into his mouth. “But I don’t care.”

Figures. He doesn’t _really_ care about anything. You could ask him a question about the meaning of life and he would shrug his shoulders and respond with either “I don’t care” or “I don’t know” because he really just…doesn’t. He wants to talk about things on his own terms, and most of the time, he can’t be bothered to start an in-depth conversation. There’s “too much” life to live before he starts to think about that deep shit.

You imagine that’s why you were attracted to him in the first place. He doesn’t really care about all that existential bullshit while you care about – well – _everything_. You keep yourself up at night worrying about what happens when you die, while Mark snores lightly beside you, most likely dreaming of puppies chasing bubbles.

Whenever you fight, he asks you why you’re with him. Why you just don’t get up and leave if you’re so frustrated with him not caring. He tells you that’s just _who he is_. You then scream, stomp your feet, and go for a drive that can last for up to two hours.

But, if you’re being honest with yourself, you can’t leave him. It’s gotten to the point where you’re absolutely infatuated with him. Mark is half of who you are, and he looks at you the same way. You know he does, because late at night when you’re lying in bed and you can’t hear anything but the lull of traffic outside of your apartment window, he’ll whisper something that lets you know he cares. It’s then that you can hear his thoughts, even if he’s not speaking. Mark puts on a façade that he doesn’t actually care about anything, but you know differently.

Although you’re an accomplished academic with awards and diplomas proving so, and although you were in the top ten of your graduating university class, Mark is smarter than you are by an infinite degree. He doesn’t try to be, and he doesn’t boast about the capacity of his brain – he just _is_. He doesn’t read the classics of Hemingway, Hawthorne, or Poe. He doesn’t watch any news channel. He’s not indo indie movies with deep, meaningful portraits as the poster. When he was in school, he’d go to class and never study for the exams, but ace them anyway. He never worked hard at knowing things because he didn’t have to – he just retains information, sticking it in the filing cabinets that make up who he is, pulling the facts out when he’ll need them.

You are determined to prove your worth in this world, and Mark is not. He does not need validation from anyone on how to live his life. Millions of people look to him as a hero, and although you can see why, you know that you would never have the confidence or the capacity to succeed like he has.

This is why you hate your fiancé.

You met in line at Target. He was in front of you, setting socks and protein powder on the counter.

“You must have pretty big feet,” the cashier said. She was flirting. You hadn’t seen his face by that point, but you had noticed that he did have quite the nice ass.

“You know what they say,” he shrugged. You expected his voice to be higher.

“Yeah,” the cashier giggled, too flirtatious for anyone’s taste.

“I hear they’re good drivers,” you chime in, feeling the need to save Sock-and-Protein guy from the teenaged employee.

“Yeah,” he laughed as he turned around. As soon as the two of you locked eyes, he muttered a small “ _shit_ ” under his breath, and you followed suit. Was it an instant physical attraction that pulled the two of you together, or was it just the fact that you were both buying socks, amongst other items?

He waited near his car for you to walk out of the store. As you quickly walked towards where you parked, you glanced at him out of the corner of your eye. It wasn’t likely he was waiting for you, so you kept walking, your coat pulled up to your chest due to the incoming autumn weather.

“Hey!” he called out. Looking up from your feet, you saw him walking towards you.

“Hi,” you smiled, brushing the hair out of your face. Although it was only October, the wind whipped around the two of you like it was the middle of December.

“I’m Mark,” he said, sticking his left hand out and quickly replacing it with his right.

You laughed and offered your name, along with your right hand, His palm was warm, considering the weather.

“I’m sure you get this all the time,” he begins, “and maybe this is too soon because we just met, but you’re the most gorgeous person I’ve ever seen. Man or woman.”

You raised your eyebrows.

“But I’m not gay!”

“Apparently not,” you smirked. Briefly, your attention was shifted to the leaves that had fluttered into a tornado-like form next to the two of you. Red, orange, and yellow warned you that winter was near.

“Do you want to go get coffee or something?” Mark asked, sticking both hands into the back pockets of his jeans.

“Well,” you thought of what you had planned for the rest of the day. You should probably start packing up the rest of your room. It was the fall of your freshman year and you hadn’t gotten the hang of knowing what you needed and didn’t need for your dorm. You had lunch planned with your sister, but she’d understand. “I think Melanie in there might get a little jealous.”

“What? The cashier? No. She won’t get jealous. She’ll applaud me for winning a coffee date with you so suavely.”

“If you say so,” you shrugged and smirked. “Are we car-pooling, or should I follow you?”

He glanced at your car, “Car-pooling.”

“Hey,” Mark says, snapping you out of the memory of your first date. He’s like a light switch in that way – always flicking you on and off, never knowing if you want it to be light or dark.

“Yeah?”

“Andrea called me the other night.”

“I wish you’d tell her to leave you alone,” you sigh. You fold up the political section and set it on the table in front of you. You’ve claimed the corner spot in your most beloved café - your favorite. With two large chairs made of the kind of material you only find in exotic countries, it’s perfect for Sunday mornings.

“She told me she didn’t want us to get married.” He spits his gum into a napkin and sets it on the table next to his black coffee.

“That’s because she’s still in love with you.” You sip on your latte and glance at him over the top of the porcelain mug.

“She told me that you’re all wrong for me,” he says as he closes the comics and tosses them on the table, nearly knocking everything over.

“That’s because she’s still in love with you,” you repeat. The sarcasm in your voice makes him frown for a second.

“But what if I think she’s right?” he asks as he starts playing with his hands. His hands are a way of avoiding what he really wants to say. It’s not a thing he does when he’s nervous. When he’s nervous, he crosses his arms at his chest. He plays with his hands when he wants to say something, but anything and everything is holding him back. His hands help him say what he can’t.

You sit back in your chair, not knowing if you’re completely ready for whatever he’s about to say.

“Maybe Andrea’s right,” he says again, like the words are coming out in slaps across the face instead of short spurts of breath.

“Of course I’m wrong for you,” you whisper.

“And maybe Andrea’s right,” he says the words once more, but this time, they take on an entirely different meaning.

“Andrea is right for you, Mark,” you tuck your feet beneath you. “You literally do everything the same. You’re both childish and find the weirdest things funny. Andrea is your twin.”

He looks at you as if you’ve just opened Pandora’s box, and for a second, you actually believe that you have.

“I think you’re pretty childish,” you begin. “You really do annoy the hell out of me sometimes. I know you don’t care about this, because that’s your goal. You _always_ try to annoy me. It’s the stupidest thing in the world,” you sigh.

Mark starts picking at his thumb.

“We shouldn’t be getting married,” you shake your head. “We shouldn’t be living together. We shouldn’t have even started dating!” your voice whispers harshly underneath the clanks and chatter of a weekend morning at a downtown bistro. “But, we are. We’re engaged. We’re getting married. We have the best time together, even though we’re the complete opposites.”

He sits back in his chair, placing both hands on his wobbling knees.

“We’re complete opposites,” you repeat yourself as you begin talking again. “You couldn’t care less of the shampoo bottle is facing the same way as the conditioner, but that shit drives me up the wall. Even though we both love each other, we hate each other too. I think in order to love someone, you’ve got to hate them a little,” you reach out and pull his hands apart. “Andrea’s right. I’m completely wrong for you, but that didn’t stop us from falling in love.”

“Sometimes,” he begins, pulling his hands out of your grasp. “I want someone who understands me better. Sometimes I think I want someone who really doesn’t care if I’m super loud in public or if I forget to flush the toilet when I pee in the middle of the night. Maybe someone who wants to watch Saturday morning cartoons with me,” he pauses, taking a breath. “I want to be with a girl who doesn’t organize the fucking freezer by size, shape, and color of the frozen dinner boxes,” he chuckles. “I’ve never thought of the perfect person for me. Seems weird, but I just know that I want someone who doesn’t analyze every move I make.”

You frown. For someone who doesn’t care, he sure seems to care a lot.

“And you’re none of those people,” Mark mutters, running his fingers through his hair.

“None of them,” you shake your head in agreement. You look down at your lap, not having enough courage to look him in the eyes.

“But I need you,” he begins. You lift your eyes to meet his. “Even though sometimes I want someone like that, I’ll _always_ need someone like you. Someone to tell me to put my dirty clothes in the hamper and hang up my coat because it’ll get wrinkled on the floor,” he smirks out of the right side of his mouth. “I need someone who will tell me what’s going on in the world, because unfortunately, video games don’t always depict realistic views of the world.”

You smile at his attempt at a joke and make a promise to yourself that under no circumstances – zero – will you cry in this coffee shop.

“I need someone who will tell me how fucking stupid I sound when I’ve gone off on some rant about how we’re not prepared for the zombie apocalypse. I need you to make sure that I eat my green vegetables and make me take breaks from games when I get too wrapped up in them,” his knees begin to bounce up and down again, and it takes everything in you not to rest your hands on top of them. “I feel like I’m not good enough for you, but like…I’m good enough for Andrea.”

“Mark,” you can’t wipe the frown off of your face, even though he’s technically just said all of those nice things about you. “You may be good enough for Andrea, but she’s not good enough for you.”

“Are you saying that you’re better than Andrea?”

“Are you saying that I’m not?” you raise your right eyebrow at him. Mark laughs, a staccato tuft of air escaping from his lips. “Neither of us are perfect. But I don’t love you because you’re perfect, and you sure as hell don’t love me because _I’m_ perfect. I love you because you’re that piece of me that I absolutely need and wouldn’t know what to do without. You’re it for me, Mark. Don’t believe what Andrea says,” you shake your head, tears pooling in your eyes.

He stares at you for a long moment. He doesn’t know that you’ve just had an epiphany of your own, realizing that _yes, you do need him_. You need him more than anything and the fact that his ex-girlfriend is putting these crazy thoughts into your brain has you freaked the fuck out. What if he leaves you? You don’t think you could survive.

Mark stares at you as if he’s pretending to shoot lava out of his eyes to melt your body, and knowing him – he probably is. He stands up and hovers over you, grabbing your arms. Lifting you up – an easy task for him – he hugs you so tightly to his body, you can’t breathe for a moment. When he lessens his grip so that you can look up at him, he bends down to kiss you, grasping the back of your neck, causing you to grab onto his t-shirt for balance.

“Fuck Andrea,” he breathes out after pulling away from the kiss, resting his forehead on yours.

“Yeah,” you nod, a single tear escaping down your cheek. “Fuck that bitch.”


End file.
